


Never Again, My Love

by xxSparksxx



Category: Poldark (TV 2015), Poldark - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Missing Scene, Season/Series 05 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 20:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20413744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxSparksxx/pseuds/xxSparksxx
Summary: After the duel with Toussaint, and before their loving conversation in their bedroom, words of pain and anguish are spoken between Ross and Demelza.SPOILERS for 5x08. Do not read this if you are avoiding spoilers.





	Never Again, My Love

**Author's Note:**

> This poured out of me last night, has been reviewed and edited at some haste, and I apologise to anyone who cries again. 
> 
> Thanks to ladydurin_x for making sure there were no glaring errors!

_“Sir…from the bottom of my heart, I…I bless you. Can you truly think to rid me of this fiend?......I loathe him! He’s a liar and a bully. He repeatedly breaks his marriage vows and – and my heart. So yes. I despise him. T’would be a blessed release if you were to dispatch him.” _

The words rang in his head. He could not shake himself free of them. Ever since Dwight had come to him, had told him that Demelza knew of his entanglement with Tess, he had known that this would be the final blow. That their marriage could not survive this, even once Demelza knew the full truth. For her to have come tonight had been a shock, knowing he must surely have driven her away for good – but for her to say such things to Toussaint, to Hanson…he had never imagined her capable of the kind of hatred she had shown this night. Not even before, with Elizabeth. She had loved him still, then – he’d been sure of it, and had known himself unworthy of it. But this night there had been nothing of love in her words or her looks. There had been at best contempt, at worst a loathing that he had never known her to feel before.

He had done this. He had done this to her, and there was nobody to blame but himself. Lies and secrets – those had always been the thing Demelza could stomach least. She’d exhorted him, once, to be honest with himself, and she’d been right, but being honest with _her_, keeping no secrets from her, consulting her and respecting her as the capable, confident woman she was – that was no less important. And he had been honest, he’d trusted her, confided in her…until his world had tumbled down around his ears with Ned’s death and the revelation of the depths of corruption that had worked to bring that death about.

His skin had crawled, these past months, with the lies he’d told to her, the vagueness of his answers to her concerns, the disregard with which he’d treated her. And Tess – Tess! He’d trusted her not one whit, had had to steel himself to bear her caresses. It had turned his stomach to pretend such things, but he’d felt he had no choice. To pretend he wanted to lie with her, to kiss her, when all he wanted was the comfort and abiding love of his beloved wife. To listen to Tess scorn Demelza and not say a word in her defence…it had been necessary to get this proof, to gain enough evidence to wreck the French hopes of invasion, but it had made him hate himself. He’d lain in bed beside Demelza every night hating himself, and some nights it had overcome him, sending him fleeing from their bedroom, down to the library where he could work and drink and try to find some moment of peace. 

And of course she’d felt he was withdrawing from her, for so he had been. For her own safety, to protect her and the children – but a withdrawal nonetheless. His only consolation had been the knowledge that there was no way she could find out about his involvement with Tess, who rarely ventured near Sawle these days, and who had no reason, now, to seek Demelza out. And he was careful; he was discreet. Only the other Frenchmen, and the few Cornishmen who were working with them, knew of the supposed attachment, and none of those would tell Demelza, for to do so would betray themselves also. 

But she knew, had found out somehow, and now…

_“I loathe him! I despise him. T’would be a blessed release if you were to dispatch him.” _

So he fought Toussaint, fought for his life, because while there was life there was hope, however fleeting. He’d known that, with Hanson present and armed, there was little chance of his survival, but he had to try, not least because they might spare Demelza, if he failed and died from sword or gunshot. He never expected George, and indeed George seemed hardly able to believe in his presence himself, not least when he actually shot the pistols in his hands. But he could barely spare George more than a thought, for in a moment Demelza was in his arms, clinging to him as if all that had happened – all she’d said that evening – had crumbled to dust. 

Almost as soon as it had started, it felt to him, the embrace ended. Toussaint was dead, George was clearly in shock, Hanson injured – there was much still to attend to, and it couldn’t wait, not with Hanson shot and bleeding on the barn floor. He let Demelza go, took the guns from George, and tried to think. Demelza’s words from earlier still echoed in his mind, a constant noise that threatened to drown out rational thought until George spoke, and a plan began to form. 

“You cannot mean to set him at liberty,” George breathed. “Finish him, dispose of both bodies, who would know?” 

“It’s tempting,” Ross said, and meant it, remembering the tears in Ned’s eyes when they’d parted, “but I have a better idea.” Demelza had Hanson’s gun, still loaded, and he reached for it, not taking it from her but letting her give it up. Then he turned to the injured man, to Dwight kneeling over Hanson trying to staunch the blood. “How bad is it?” he asked. He didn’t care, except that he didn’t want Hanson to bleed out here, now. Justice demanded more. All he’d done, all he’d suffered – if he could seize _this_ from it all, as well as thwarting the French and asserting his loyalty to his country, it might be…not worth it, not if he’d lost Demelza, but she’d embraced him as if she couldn’t bear to be separated from him, and he hoped…he hoped…

“It’ll keep him in bed a few weeks, but he’ll recover,” Dwight reported. 

“Mistress, come quick!”

It was a child’s voice – a young girl, one of the Hoblyns, or so he thought. Ross couldn’t spare more than a glance at the doorway, where the child stood. But Demelza went to her, and whatever it was, he would likely be of little use. More urgent was Hanson. 

“Thank you, my friend,” he said to the wounded man.

“For what?” Hanson barked, pained and angry both. 

“For demonstrating the true nature of loyalty.” He bent and snatched his letter from Hanson’s inner pocket, scarcely aware of what he said, only wishing to get out of this man’s presence as quickly as he could, now that it was safe to do so. There was still George to deal with – George, who had just shot a man, who had killed for the first time in his life, and who looked as though a stiff breeze would knock him over. And Demelza – but Demelza had vanished. The child had been sent to fetch her, and now both had gone.

He took George into the house and made him drink a glass of brandy. Nerves settled, animosity restated, George took his leave, and before long Ross heard Dwight’s horse, too, and another – Hanson’s, no doubt, for the man was scarcely likely to have walked from Trenwith. Dwight would accompany his patient back there, and Ross…

Ross was left alone in the house, as he had been for some days now. Alone to contemplate his sins. Alone to wonder if the embrace he’d shared with Demelza had meant what he hoped it meant, or whether it had been from some release of tension on her part, some measure of shock at what had happened. If it had meant something, she would not have disappeared, but then if someone had had need of her, he knew she would have gone without hesitation. Of course she had gone. Perhaps Drake or Sam had been injured, setting their fuses. Perhaps someone in the village had fallen ill. They were as like to call for Demelza as for Dwight, for minor ailments. 

_“He’s a liar and a bully. He repeatedly breaks his marriage vows and – and my heart. I despise him.”_

He would never forget how she’d spoken, how coldly she’d looked at him. But she knew, she _must_ know that it had all been a lie, all a deception to try to protect her and his country both. She must know. She must be brought to know. Dwight knew the whole story now, surely Dwight would tell her, and her brothers. Or Geoffrey Charles, who had been in on the secret from the beginning, a stalwart cadet ready to do his part. Though not even with Geoffrey Charles had Ross shared his doubts, his misgivings, his deep shame at deceiving Demelza and at allowing another woman to touch him, kiss him. Nothing more than that, thank God, he’d always been able to put Tess off, but it was enough. It was a betrayal, and Demelza was right to feel betrayed.

Two hours passed by the time she returned. Ross had drunk another glass of brandy, and then put the bottle aside. It was a refuge he didn’t deserve, and inebriation would serve neither of them. Instead he paced, back and forth across the parlour, six long strides one way and six the other. The clock on the mantel chimed each quarter hour, and then each hour. Ten o’clock, eleven. He began to think she would not come back at all, at least not tonight. The children must still be at Killewarren, perhaps she had gone there, to seek respite and comfort from a source that would never fail her. 

But at last he heard the front door open, and heard her familiar step on the floorboards in the hall. She came into the parlour unbuttoning her coat, her head bent down to watch what her fingers were doing.

“Drake and Morwenna have a daughter,” she said, her voice full of joy. When he said nothing, she looked up at him, and her warm smile faded away. He didn’t know what she saw. He knew what he felt himself to be, and knew he wasn’t deserving of her forgiveness. But he had to try, nonetheless. Nothing mattered without her. Nothing in the world. England, France, Wickham, Merceron – none of them mattered if he did not have her. 

“Demelza,” he managed. He could barely speak around the lump in his throat. He felt so worn, so weary. All he wanted was to fall into her arms and let her soothe him, as she had soothed him so many times in the past, eased his burdens and given him peace. But there were words to be spoken first. 

“Oh, Ross.” She set aside her coat and came to him, cupping his face in her hands, her expression so open, so soft and concerned, that he felt sure she had been told the truth, by somebody. If she had not, she would not touch him so, nor look at him like this. Her thumb rubbed across his cheek; a tear, he realised. She was wiping away a tear.

“Did Dwight tell you,” he choked out, “did he tell you –,”

“Caroline did. She told me all.”

“My love…” He closed his eyes against the hot burn of more tears. “My dearest Demelza…” He felt the press of her lips against his forehead. A benediction, of sorts. “I am so sorry for deceiving you,” he made himself say. It was not the apology that was hard, but all words. He felt choked with tears, choked with the shame of all these months of lies, choked with the agony he’d felt when he’d heard her denounce him to Toussaint. 

_“Can you truly think to rid me of this fiend? I loathe him! He’s a liar and a bully. He repeatedly breaks his marriage vows and – and my heart.” _

There had been the ring of truth to it, and even if she now knew all, even if she forgave him for it, still the heartbreak, for her, had been real.

“I know you are,” she murmured. “Oh, Ross.” She kissed his forehead again, and his cheeks, and tried to kiss his mouth. But Ross turned his head aside. He could not kiss her lips until he had confessed all. She must know everything, she must be reassured that nothing more than kisses had passed between he and Tess, would _ever_ have passed between them.

She misinterpreted the gesture, and began to shrink away from him. Ross opened his eyes, caught at her hands, unable and unwilling to let her withdraw. 

“Let me explain,” he entreated. “Please?” She nodded and, after another moment, let him guide her to the settle. They sat together, as they had so many times before over the course of their marriage, and the whole sordid affair came tumbling out of him. The Frenchman who had met him in Roscoff, all those years ago when he’d gone there seeking information about Dwight, who he’d found here in Cornwall plotting invasions. How he’d lied to her about what had happened on the beach that night, and lied to the French about his loyalties, using what had happened with Ned as proof to back up his story of disenchantment with his country, trying to save his own neck at first but then mindful of Wickham’s curt admonition to bring him proof of a plot, not rumours and hearsay. He spoke of Ned’s last words to him, his certainty that Ross would make the world a better place, would expose corruption and fight for the true values of his country – how those words had driven him onwards, determined to prove Ned right to have such faith in him. He talked about months of working to gain the French’s trust, months of swallowing his tongue whenever Jacka or Tess spoke ill of Demelza. 

“And Tess?” Demelza pressed him, when he faltered. “Was there no other choice there?”

“Not that I saw,” he said, unable to look at her now. “How did you –,”

“I went to Wheal Leisure,” she said simply. “I knew you were keeping something from me, and I thought it must be to do with the tin or the hoard of weapons, so I went to see if aught had changed, to make you so hesitant to act. I found…” It was her turn to falter, her breath catching in her throat. Ross grasped her hands and kissed them, one and then the other. He could imagine what she had found. He knew what she must have seen and heard, for the change in her attitude had been marked. From one day to the next, she had stopped trying to reach him, and that terrible, terrible conversation about honesty…

“Demelza, I swear to you, nothing happened beyond a few kisses,” he murmured. “I would not let it. I had to keep her engaged enough to stay quiet, but beyond that –,”

“I believe you.”

He exhaled a short, sharp breath of air, and sagged against the back of the settle. “She’s a selfish, malicious creature,” he said, speaking the words he had longed to speak for so many months. “I didn’t dare trust her an inch, and I never, _never_ had even the slightest fancy for her. But to keep my cover intact, I had to keep her from guessing the truth. She’s sly and stupid, but she has a knack for seeing how to cause trouble, and she could have brought the whole thing crashing down on our heads.”

“Nay, Ross, not our heads. Yours alone.” Startled, he looked up at her, and found her on the verge of tears. His own had long since dried up, the emotions expunged with every sentence he spoke to her, but there were tears in Demelza’s eyes now, glistening in the firelight. “This was you alone, not we together. I do believe you about Tess, though the pain you put me through…” Her mouth trembled, and her chin. “I thought I should die from it,” she admitted. “Everything was in ashes, my whole life…before Caroline told me the truth, I was packed and ready to go to Verity, to beg Captain Blamey to get us passage out of the country.”

“What?” He sat up straight, catching at her hand again. “Demelza –,”

“I could not bear the thought of being here,” she wept. “Of never knowing if you’d be with her, or if – if you held her as you held me, kissed her as you once did me.”

“My love…”

“I thought I had to get away, to stand any chance of living.” Tears were flooding down her face now, and Ross tried to wipe them away, but there were too many. “I couldn’t bear it, Ross – I couldn’t _bear_ it, after all we’d been through, after all Tess had done to us – Elizabeth was one thing, but Tess!” She dissolved into a swell of sobbing, and all he could do was pull her to him, settle her against his shoulder, wrap his arms around her and let her weep the pain out. 

Eventually the storm passed. She still leaned against him, her head tucked under his, one hand clutching at the edge of his waistcoat, but the tears ceased, and her sobs too. Occasionally she let out a gentle hiccough as she recovered from it. He held her, wordless, knowing the next steps must be hers. 

At last she spoke. “Ross, I cannot go through this again,” she said. Her voice was rough from crying, but she was resolute.

“There will never be another time,” he swore. “Never again, my love.” No matter the reason, he would not deceive her in such a way again, and he would never, _never_ risk their marriage to further his mission.

“The _secrets_,” she said, as if he’d missed the point. Perhaps he had, for he’d been thinking mainly of Tess. “The lies. We were – I thought we were agreed, that there should be no more need of secrets between us, nothing withheld from each other. I thought you _trusted_ me.”

“I was trying to protect you,” he said, but it was a feeble excuse, and sounded so to his own ears. That had been his aim, had been his overriding concern these past five months, but she was right. He had not trusted her. If he had told her the truth, if he had explained his desperate gamble, she would have been in more danger, yes – but she had proven herself an able actress, this evening. If indeed it had all been an act; he still heard her words, ringing in his ears. The scorn with which she’d said she despised him. “Demelza, what you said tonight, to Toussaint – did you – were you –,”

She lifted her head, straightening up to look at him. Her eyes were red, her cheeks pale. Some women looked ugly, when crying, but Demelza was not one of them, and never had been. She looked fragile and worn, but beautiful with it. 

“I didn’t know what I intended when I came,” she admitted, “but t’was all a lie, Ross. Surely you know that.”

“You said you loathed me,” he remembered. “You said I repeatedly broke your heart.” She opened her mouth, but seemed to have no words. He summoned a weak smile. “And so I have. Though never intentionally. Not that that counts for much, intentions being meaningless when consequences are so great, but I tried – I _tried_ to keep the worst of it from you.” She shook her head a little, but he didn’t know why, and he tried again. “I would not blame you if it was true, in any degree,” he said. “I was trying to keep you safe, but in doing so, I’ve only caused more harm.”

“It was not true,” she said, quietly and with dignity. “I am not a good hater, Ross. I believe I’ve only hated you once, and it passed, by and by.” There was no need for further explanations; they both knew the time she meant. “I was trying to buy time,” she went on, “and he did not seem the kind to respond well to a plea for mercy.”

“No, not he.” A vain man, secure in his appeal for women and in the knowledge of his cause as just. “You saved my life,” he remarked, in case she remained unaware of the truth of it. “I would be lying dead on the floor here, had you not come. Either he or Hanson would have shot me.”

“Judas, don’t say such a thing,” she muttered. “I can’t bear thinking of it.”

“Nor I. The idea of never seeing you again…” He could not suppress a shudder, and once again Demelza reached for him, cupping his cheek in her hand and tracing the line of his scar with her thumb. “I owe you everything,” he whispered. “My life, my sanity, my happiness – you have saved me tonight, my love, as you have saved me so many times before.”

“Well, t’was a selfish action,” she said, some humour coming back into her voice, her eyes beginning to twinkle from something other than tears. “I’m not sure I could live in a world without Captain Ross Poldark in it, and the children would have been most aggrieved.” He chuckled, and turned his head so he could kiss her palm. 

“My love,” he said softly. “My love.” He sobered again. The fire was dying down, but the red glow of the embers glinted against the metal of the ring on her finger. His beloved wife. He did not deserve her. “I will never keep anything from you,” he vowed. “Never again. No matter the cause. I swear it, Demelza.”

“I will hold you to that, Ross,” she said, sober too, earnest and sincere. The rawness of her pain seemed dulled, but the scars were still there. “I would never ask you to go against your nature – I know it too well, and love it though sometimes it grieves me – but to _share_ in it. That’s all I ask.” It was little enough, after the harm he’d caused her, the damage he had inflicted upon their marriage. And after all, if he could not trust Demelza, there was little point in trusting anyone else. He had made mistakes, these past months, that he would not repeat. No matter what the future held, his secrets would be hers, always.

“I swear it,” he repeated, and Demelza sighed, a long exhalation that seemed to ease something within her. 

“Let’s go to bed,” she suggested. “It’s late, and there’s much to be done tomorrow.”

For the first time in weeks, Ross followed her up the stairs without any sense of shame, without the misery of being alone in his travails. They lit the candles in the bedroom and undressed in silence, but it wasn’t awkward or pained, as so many of their silences had been, of late. Once Ross had discarded his boots and waistcoat, he watched as Demelza folded her dress and unlaced her stays, his gaze not lustful but grateful. She was still here, still his dearest wife, and no rebuke was offered when she caught him looking at her. Instead she smiled, as if she knew what he was thinking, then pulled her nightdress over her head and let the long folds of fabric fall down her body.

“You look as if you can scarce believe your eyes,” she teased.

“Perhaps I can’t,” he laughed quietly. “My dearest love.” He reached out for her, and she came to him, let him take her hands and draw her down onto her knee. “I doubt I can ever repay you,” he remarked. “How your mind leaped to such a plan!”

“There was no plan,” she scoffed. “I was that afeared, I just blurted the first thing that came into my head!”

“His vanity was his undoing, I knew if I could just bide my time…”

“I was counting on that too,” Demelza said. He looked at her, this incredible woman he’d married, loved, mistreated, and cherished. He had always known her mind was quick and her understanding keen, that her heart was pure and her forgiveness readily given; he had not always known how much he owed her. He would spend the rest of his life trying to repay the debt. 

“I should never have kept things from you,” he murmured. “You saved my life.” Tonight she had saved him, but so many times before, in indescribable, ineffable ways. She had saved him. He had promised her that he would never withhold the truth, but now he promised himself: he would never again take that for granted. He had come too close to losing her, too many times. Never again. 

Never again.


End file.
